


The Mystery of the Scuba Bear

by Unicoranglais



Category: Return of the Obra Dinn (Video Game), Total Drama
Genre: Because I can, Crack Crossover, Crack Treated Seriously, Gen, Post-Canon, Undead, Worst Crossover Ever?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-24
Updated: 2020-09-24
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:01:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26628703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unicoranglais/pseuds/Unicoranglais
Summary: Strange things are afoot when the haunted ship Obra Dinn floats into Wawanakwa Bay.(Alternatively: Some time after the disaster, Captain Robert Witterel encounters an even worse disaster in Kids These Days, who make his crew of corpses look positively exceptional by comparison. Obra Dinn-centric with some not very veiled Total Drama characters (from across all seasons). Crackfic.)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 1





	The Mystery of the Scuba Bear

**Author's Note:**

> ~~Tfw you write a very specific fic for someone and nobody but them will understand a lick of it.~~  
>  (Edit: I stand corrected, someone else apparently understands this and my faith in fandom is restored. Best day ever.)

“Enough with the knocking! It’s not bolted.”

Hoscut responded by kicking the cabin door right open, sending it hard enough into the wall that Witterel’s desk shook. But he didn’t come inside; just stood there in the doorway, and glared like the captain had just kicked _his_ door in.

Perhaps he recalled what had happened _last_ time he’d tried such a ridiculous entrance. Perhaps not.

Witterel sniffed, and shoved his giant paper pile to one side. These strangely worded contracts from that McLean creature who said he owned all of Wawanakwa and its waters could wait – he wasn’t about to get much signing done right now. “You’ve best have some explanation for that entrance,” he growled, though it was more to check his ears were still working than anything else.

The first mate took his hat off, and stepped inside. Feeling a little self–conscious, Witterel removed his as well, placing it on the desk and motioning for Hoscut to sit. But Hoscut did not sit, leaned on the desk instead, so the bullet-hole in his chest was at eye–level. So Witterel stood, upsetting his paper pile in the process, and then he had to sit back down to rescue it from a nasty fall, and he copped another eyeful of the _hole_ , and only then did Hoscut actually start explaining himself.

“You see,” he began, his English a damn sight more elegant than Witterel’s own, if a little more stilted, “I’d like to report a problem, captain. And a serious one at that.”

Always one to mince his words! You’d think after so many absolute disasters, Hoscut would have learned to explain things on the first sentence, but he did insist on that dramatic flair.

Once, he’d have reached for his gun, just to make Hoscut hurry the hell up. Now, he only scowled at Hoscut, and waved a sheet vaguely in front of him, so he didn’t have to look at the hole. Younger brothers–in–law were much like younger brothers – one either ended up killing them, or became more tolerant of them over time. Witterel had already achieved one of those things, and given a second chance, was trying out the other.

“Well? Out with it.”

Hoscut swallowed, and straightened himself so he loomed over his captain. At least he had the decency to tuck his hands behind his back. “Men, sir. They’re disappearing, apparently. And the men– the ones who haven’t disappeared – they reckon it’s _you_ doing the disappearing.”

“You could call me Robert,” Witterel grumbled. “Or Witterel, at least.”

It was a joke. Or maybe it wasn’t, Witterel wasn’t too sure what a first mate who was also a sort of brother and whose sister he’d gone and married should be calling him. Hoscut clearly didn’t think it was a joke, because he didn’t smile. “Are you refusing to answer the accusation, captain?”

“Just what are you accusing me of?” Drawing himself up to his proper height, which sadly was a good head under Hoscut’s, the captain let every last damned page slide off the table, and reached for his gun. “Mutiny? Again? Come now, you know exactly how well that ended for you last time–”

“I wouldn’t believe you are responsible for a _moment.”_

Witterel pulled his pistol from its holder, and pointed it at the bullet hole in Hoscut’s chest, and waited.

“But the men want answers. You should perhaps, answer them, if you want to maintain control of this vessel.”

“And who do they think has disappeared? Come to think of it, who would I be answering to?”

Hoscut was silent at that, so Witterel leaned over, and he really wanted to shoot, _but_ he did that nice little clicky thing with the trigger instead. Did it again, and louder, until Hoscut came out with a sigh so long and protracted, it could have been classified as its own form of hurricane. The papers were blown every which way, and Witterel banging the weapon down on the table certainly didn’t help to settle them.

“Hoscut! Don’t tell me it’s mutiny, and you don’t know who it’s over this time, let alone who’s the leader.”

“That’ll have to be investigated, sir,” he mumbled at last, and the captain straightened up. 

“Right. And you’ll be coming with me to investigate.”

* * *

“So, you think the captain did it. And did you actually… notice any of these disappearances?” Hoscut said to Brennan, because Hoscut asking was slightly less likely to get a stupid response.

“How am I supposed to notice _disappearances,_ eh?” Brennan shot back, because Hoscut asking was only _slightly_ less likely to get a stupid response. Propping his elbows up against the rail, he paused, perhaps relishing wasting their time. “They’re gone, see. Or rather, you don’t see. You can’t notice things that’re gone, can you? Not that you’re good at noticing things that’re actually there in the first place, sir.”

He grinned at Witterel, like he had said something that was funny and not just plain subordination. it didn't reach his eyes.

“There’s a promotion in it for you,” Hoscut wheedled. “If you want it.” 

“ _Sure_ there is,” said Brennan, like he really didn’t care, but he drew himself up from the railing and started smoothing down his clothes. “Say though, what kind of promotion are we talking? Haven’t seen Davies about. You don’t think I could…?”

Fourth Mate Brennan, definitely not what he needed on this damn boat. They were already cursed enough as is. Witterel sighed and came forwards; imagined slicing the rat’s throat open, grit his teeth. _You already did that._ “That’s one name. We need more.”

It wasn’t a question. He wasn’t expecting much of an answer, after all, and of course Brennan didn’t give him anything straight. Brennan wasn’t _straight_ in general. “Nobody as important as Davies, sir. The thing’s preying on the weak, that’s how I’m so very sure it’s not you. You’re too dumb to pick on people you can actually beat.”

Such insolence couldn’t go unnoticed. Trying not to kill Brennan on the spot was hard enough _without_ these insults being flung Witterel’s way. “Do you not think I thoroughly defeated you, or do you need me to open up your neck again?”

“Spoken like a murderer, _sir_.”

“Just tell me who the others are,” said Hoscut, ever the diplomat. “I’d rather like to find them.” Witterel took several deep breaths, and Brennan smirked, completely at ease. Asshole.

“I don’t know about that. Wouldn’t want to be ‘promoted’ to passenger, would I? Or first mate’s steward. But I could do fourth mate, maybe.” Brennan grinned. “Hey, Hoscut. If your captain _disappeared_ , and I _noticed_ it, do you think there’d be a spot available up there–?”

More than enough people to investigate, there, but like hell was he going to give Brennan a promotion for insulting him. Witterel stepped around in front of Hoscut, keeping one hand on his gun. “Hardly. Get back to work, before I call the bosun over.”

* * *

The first mate’s steward wasn’t in the first mate’s cabin, nor the kitchen, nor the third mate’s cabin. His hammock was empty, too, save for a furball the size of Hoscut’s fist. The thing was soaked right through, too, dripping onto the floor. Something large and drooly had slept here, but as far as Witterel knew, Paul Moss didn’t own a dog.

“But I saw him just this morning!” Hoscut blurted out, then hesitated – “Well, it might have been yesterday morning. Last week. But – but he always sleeps around this hour, he should be here. Unless he’s serving Perrott again.”

Witterel swallowed. “We already checked his cabin. So, that would mean he’s…”

He wasn’t going to _say_ Brennan was right, of course. Hoscut wasn’t either, so they just looked at each other.

“There’s a lot of passengers on this boat,” Hoscut managed after a while. “He might have served them. We should check.”

Passengers were the _other_ sort of role Brennan had mentioned as disappearing, of course. But like hell was Witterel about to point it out. “A fine idea,” he replied, like Hoscut’s thinking was totally his own.

* * *

If they were going to check on the passengers, Witterel reasoned to himself, they might as well check on his wife – Hoscut’s sister – first.

This turned out to be a terrible mistake, because of course it was. 

“Marriage counselling? I don’t _need_ \- you are far too young to be a counsellor!”

“I'm qualified! A CIT, don't you know what that is?" The cursed girl creature snarled. She waved her hands at Witterel from the bed, where for whatever horrible reason, Abigail was sitting. The scariest part of this was that she seemed perfectly calm, like trusting this angry teen with her marriage was a completely reasonable thing to do. “This is an intervention. You give me that million bucks, old man, and I'll give you good advice.”

This boat really was cursed.

“Do we have any of these 'bucks', Robbie?” asked Abigail, and Hoscut made one hell of a noise.

“ _Robbie?”_

Witterel wasn’t quite sure he wasn’t blushing; he was definitely feeling hot under the collar. “Never heard that name in my life, as… incredible as it sounds.”

“Liar!” screeched the teenager, as only teens can. Once again, Witterel was reminded of why there were no young ladies in the manifest. Young women were nothing but trouble. 

Hoscut shook his head. “With respect sir, I… do not think ‘Robbie’ is particularly appropriate for ship life. If the crew were to find out- why, if _Brennan_ were to find out–”

“Abigail, I think you should come here _right now._ ” And Witterel stomped his foot, not that helped much. If anything, Hoscut’s sister just cosied up to the blasted teenager, like she was the daughter they'd never bothered having, and even raised her voice at him.

“Well, _I_ think you should actually agree to some marriage counselling!”

"That's right! You tell him!" 

“ _Anyway,_ we have a murder investigation. I mean, a disappearance investigation, to be getting on with, right about now. If you don’t mind!” And Hoscut dragged Witterel back out into the hall, both men just about panting with the effort and embarrassment of it all. “You– you can just have your marriage counselling later, sir. I’m sure it’s not urgent. My sister’s a wonderful lady, after all, just a little headstrong–”

“I don’t need marriage counselling!” Witterel snarled. “And just what was that... that _creature_ doing on our boat, anyway?!?”

“I am a _woman_!” the thing shouted after them. “Misogynist pig!”

* * *

To Witterel’s relief, the next cabin they checked in the long hallway was not occupied by his wife, a teenager, or anything offering marriage services. Much to his horror, it was occupied by a small, fat person he had never seen before in his life, with a gut to rival Andersen’s, and a mop of bright purple hair. (Was that paint? Dye? Some sort of Homs bullshittery? Was he wearing an evil eldritch squirrel? Witterel didn’t know, and didn’t want to ask.)

“Ah, a butler! I’d like to be moved to another room.” The person’s voice cracked – male, and young. Under eighteen. A minor, up until now completely unknown and unattended, on his boat.

 _Whose fault is this?,_ Witterel thought. Out loud, he said: “Butler?”

“Yes, minion!” came the answer. “Will you listen when talking to you? I am trying to evil. And complain about my room. You see–”

“Evil?” Hoscut wondered.

“ _Minion?”_ Witterel wondered, considerably louder and angrier. Hoscut’s elbow in his side did very little to stave off his temper. “Did you just call me a–”

The little guy groaned, and clutching his chest, fell to the floor before them. “The room! The room! It gives me the _tumsie–whumsies_.” A theatrical roll onto his back, so he could complain louder: “Oooo! Whenever will it stop? I have evil plans to enact, you know, and this is _really_ very offputting. I can’t concentrate on evil when I have the tumsie–whimsies.”

“Evil plans?!? Just what do you know about the disappearance of my man?” Witterel shouted at him.

“No, no, he can’t have done anything while he had these… tumsie–whumsies,” Hoscut managed. “He’s got nothing to do with it, sir. Not our man.” 

“He’s barely a _child_ ,” Witterel scowled. “Why is a child onboard our ship?”

“I have the tumie–whimsies very badly,” the child whined. “I need someone to rub my belly–wells all better.”

“And _we_ have far more important things to do!” Witterel bellowed.

“No! You have to serve evil! Evil demands its belly be rubbed! Come back here at once, minion!”

* * *

“Missing people? Er, have you seen anyone called Mal, by any chance? Ha! Of course you haven’t. I was just, you know, checking.”

 _Another_ child! An older one, yes, but a child. Probably making things up. You could never trust anyone with a gap in their teeth anyway, because that might mean they’d recently been punched in the face. You had to either do something pretty terrible to get punched in the face, or hang around people who did terrible things.

That, and Witterel didn’t trust anyone taller than him. Especially not _children_ taller than him! That was just multiple levels of subordination.

“You haven’t seen anyone called Mal, have you?” the child demanded. "Er, he wears his hair all emo-like, and he does the whistling?"

Witterel swallowed back a few choice words. “Answer the question. Do you know of anyone who’s missing?”

“Well, I don’t know.” The stranger stood up, towering over both men. Not that he had much meat on him, and he was shaking like a leaf – but still, very annoying. “Cam, do _you_ know? Er… Cam? Cam!” And he spun, like a confused terrier. “He– he was here just a minute ago! We were just ready to go to sleep!”

“It’s high noon,” Witterel observed, and the child managed a laugh as high and dry as a beached whale. About as colossally awkward and disastrous, too.

“Well, uh, of course! Cam and I, we just love sleeping in broad daylight! You can come out now, Cam. I mean it. _Please._ ”

“Cam?” Witterel repeated, mostly because he hadn’t heard such a name before. It sounded like one of those awkward shortenings the crew used, like ‘Rod’ or ‘Tom’. It certainly wasn’t manly, like _Robbie._

“Oh, he’s my best friend!” The child tilted his head so far to the side on his long neck, it almost came down to Witterel’s eye–level. “Do you know where he went? He didn’t disappear, did he? He was here… I mean, a while ago. Man, time sure flies.” 

“As real as this Mal, I’ll wager,” Hoscut whispered. Witterel nodded, and backed away slowly.

* * *

“Dude!”

“Dude!”

_“Duuuuuude!”_

Yes, that was three separate adolescents. One had a hat and a shirt, one had a different hat and no shirt (but some sort of ghastly pink jacket that he had left hanging wide open) and one had a shirt and no hat. Between them: an _unholy_ amount of wood(en boards with wheels attached).

This was definitely some sort of satanic ritual. Hoscut slammed the door on the lot of them.

* * *

_“Good morning, campers!”_

The third child of the day had one of those strange devices Christopher McClean often used to make his voice sound everywhere, yet so tinny; small and big at the same time. He had a big, too–white smile, just like Chris; he even went for the handshake. Witterel backed into the corridor, bumped into Hoscut, steeled himself, and marched back in.

“Have you seen–”

“Reading my mind, haha! That’s right! Have _you_ seen Chris? I need to talk to Chris. I’m replacing Chris, see. The producers said so. Say, are you Chris in a clever disguise again? That beard suits you.” 

Witterel slammed the door on the demon.

“Definitely that counsellor's brother,” Hoscut muttered. “They both have that unnerving stare.”

Witterel wasn't so sure about that, but he could be _quite_ sure he knew the father.

* * *

All in all, a long day of accusations, denials, and all manner of general nonsense. The full moon was high in the sky by the time Witterel had dealt with all but one on the damn boat.

Altogether, they’d managed to work out that four crew members were missing – Lanke, the midshipman, Gibbs, the carpenter’s mate, Moss, who Hoscut said was his steward and Perrott said was _his_ steward and frankly wasn’t the captain’s steward so he didn’t care too much, and Davies, who had been missing since who knew when. There was also a fairly large number of passengers who were apparently on his boat now, though Witterel had never heard of any of them, and none of them were in the ship's manifest. They bore odd names like Lightning and Cam and Sugar; strangest of all was one ‘Nunzio Pasqua’, which Witterel couldn’t even begin to pronounce.

“The violin man! The Italian! With the _fiddle!_ ” Perrott had exclaimed in despair. “Surely you remember him! He’s been with us this whole voyage! You had that Formosan shot over his murder!”

Witterel didn’t remember him, though it wasn’t like he recalled any of the children on this boat either. Perhaps this Nunzio was their father, though he suspected McLean to be far more likely. 

What he _did_ recall was a long line of bizarre testimonials from his own crew, who had somehow proven even more incoherent than the passengers. Volkov wanted more beer. So did Wallace. Pressed about the disappearances, Milroy had recalled last seeing Lanke heading out onto deck to be sick over the side ‘like usual’, so he’d followed and very nearly almost rescued his crewmate, but Hershtik said he’d heard screaming from down below, and heroically slain Witterel himself (somehow) to save Lanke, and then they’d gotten into a fistfight over it. Sefton had said if Witterel found whoever was responsible, to bring him to him, and he would cook them as a fine stew. Perrot wanted some of the stew, and he said he was joking, but Hoscut wasn’t entirely sure about that. And O’Farrell had said Volkov and Wallace weren’t allowed any more beer, however much they might want.

There seemed to be a general consensus that, even if it was the captain’s fault, a terrible beast was involved in the action. Butement had heard a bear the other night, maybe, but it was hard to make out being upside down, and if he’d been upright he’d have been able to see. (Witterel had refused to pull him up and right him, of course.) Wolff said he had tried shooting the beast, but it had turned out to be his own foot. And poor Andersen, the last steward not to be disappeared, insane, or Sathi, said he’d slipped beer to _both_ Volkov and Wallace, but only because they hadn’t asked nicely.

Spratt was somehow the most and least useful on this front. He said he’d managed to capture on paper an image of the beast, but that turned out to be an unflattering picture of Witterel with large guns for hands, because Spratt had started drawing guns first and then changed his mind about it. According to Spratt, Witterel had a ‘final form’ as well, which he was still drawing, but since it looked suspiciously like a bear on two legs with six giant guns and Witterel’s hat, it could probably be disregarded as evidence.

Then there was the most important thing, in Witterel’s opinion: The identity of whoever had been spreading the ridiculous rumour that _he_ was a murderer. Klestil was sure that Wiater had done it, as sure as Wiater was that Klestil had done it, and Dahl said it was the hellborn hell creatures from hell who were responsible, and the hellborn hell creatures from hell, otherwise known as crabs, said they had no idea. Li knew, the bugger definitely knew, but Hoscut wouldn’t let Witterel sign over his life savings in exchange for the information. Those who could understand Li almost certainly knew, too, but the Formosans were just too aggressive to waste time on questioning, and Maba wasn’t much use on account of his English, which Perrott had been meaning to teach him for the last fifteen years or so.

Still, Nick, who could understand Maba, said it was Walker’s fault, which Witterel found very interesting indeed. Lars said he didn’t know about that, but he it wasn’t him, and Walker agreed – it wasn’t him, but it was probably Lars. Akbar laughed and said it was almost certainly Walker, so Walker socked him and Wasim came at Walker with a scimitar. Miner and Diom had intervened, only to end up fighting each other, and Butement had been betting on the result with Akbar, apparently, because when the resulting brawl landed six men in the surgeon’s office Akbar was one rich lascar.

Wallace had filed an ‘official correspondence Queen’s order of the International Water State’, which was just a handwritten note demanding more beer. It was delivered by that damn monkey, who took Witterel’s hat in exchange for handing over the note. He’d have to find it later – only one person left to interrogate, after all.

Hopefully a man who would make some degree of sense.

* * *

Witterel didn’t knock; he knew the carpenter too well for that. He slunk in instead. “Hello.” Smith just grunted, so he went on, careful to keep his tone measured. “When did you last see your mate?”

“Five days ago. Just after the ship docked at this cursed bay.” The carpenter didn’t look up from his work, hammering something or other full of nails. “Walker told me everything, sir. Even told me you’d come here asking about it. And here we are.”

Witterel doubted pointing a gun at him would really help, since at best the carpenter wouldn’t notice it and at worst would result in murderer accusations, so he didn’t do that. At least he’d been given a solid name for the man spreading these rumours, that didn’t come from bad translations or Akbar. Perhaps he should be grateful. “You’d believe a lowly seaman over your captain?” he barked, just to confirm. “You’d believe _Lewis?_ ”

The carpenter thought about it. “I believe Gibbs is dead. Again. And I believe Walker knows something about it.”

A measured response, all right, but there was a lot of anger in there. Hoscut stepped in. “Well, he may not be _dead_ , Master… erm.”

There was a horrible silence.

Shit. What _was_ his name, again? He was a strange fellow, the new carpenter. One of those types who had been to America or something like that, and didn’t like it. How could you not like America? Witterel had only ever seen it in the papers, but he’d always wanted to go there. 

“Smith.” Reaching up, the carpenter took an axe from the wall. “I’m quite good with throwing these, sir. Better than Gibbs was.”

There was no real threat in the man’s voice, no swears. He just let the raised axe do the talking. It worked remarkably well, Witterel backed up so fast he bumped into Hoscut. “Stand down! There’s no need for threats!” he just about screamed at Smith.

“Stating a fact. Walker knows that, see, so he’d not lie to me. It’s pretty simple.” Smith brought the axe down hard on his work, splicing it in two. “Can you prove my mate’s not dead, sir?”

“N–no,” Hoscut stammered. “Of course not. But we can… interrogate Walker? Is that what you want?”

“It’s what an innocent man’d do.” And Smith went back to his work like absolutely nothing had happened, and it wasn’t now in two separate pieces.

* * *

“Listen here, you!” Witterel roared, and Lewis Walker screeched something that indicated he would rather screech and roll around on the floor than listen, so Witterel put a boot to the slit in his head, and pressed down. “You’ll answer my questions, understand?!?”

“He cannae answer without a voicebox!” Hoscut shouted, his accent drifting into Scottish territory in his panic. But he had a good point, so Witterel took his boot off, which was a bad idea, because the ship rocked, and Walker rolled hard into a deskleg, upsetting the bloody papers all over again, and the slit in his head kind of leaked all over the place. Great.

“What the blazers was _that_ for?!? There’s blood on ‘em now!”

“I didn’t mean to– God, what’re the damn questions?” Walker shrieked back, crawling under the desk before Witterel could try to pin him with a boot again. For such a broad man, he was remarkably fast at crawling. “Or are you just gonna murder me?!?”

“It’s about that, laddie,” Hoscut put in. “The murder. You tell the captain what you’ve been saying to everyone else, what you told Smith, about the murders and such.” 

“Don’t wanna,” said Walker, so Witterel took out his pistol once more and pointed it at his face. “Wait! Wait! It’s simple! There’s this bear thing, it comes out at night, and it keeps ah, disappearing the night watch. I’m too fast and too high in the rigging for it, see, so it can’t get me, but it can get the others. So, it keeps disappearing them. And since I never see it during the day, and I never see _you_ during the day, cap’n, it’s got to be you. That’s it.”

Well, that was some flawed reasoning if Witterel had ever heard it. He scowled. “Bear thing?”

“Well, it can’t be a bear! Its face’s all square. And ugly. Like your face. Not that you’re _ugly_ or anything, sir, just square, so I’m pretty sure it’s you. Don’t shoot me.”

“I’m the captain here! I’ll be deciding–”

“Aye, aye.” Hoscut reached over and pulled Witterel’s gun down, away from Walker. “Just, no shooting, och?” He coughed, putting on a flimsy imitation of his usual elite act. “What do you mean, _disappearing the night watch_? Who’s doing this?”

Walker squinted up at them, like the surgeon’s monkey sometimes did; a creature on the verge of sentience. “Disappearing’s disappearing, isn’t it? They’re not here. Gone.”

“Dead?” Witterel asked. Walker looked away. “Give me their names. And then you’ll tell me who’s doing this!”

“You should know, you killed them.” Curled up under the table as much as he could, his bulk squeezed against a table leg, Witterel was reminded of a cornered animal, or maybe a sulking cat. Walker did sound very sulky. “Lanke’s gone, Moss went the other night, Smith’s a mess ‘cuz of Gibbs. It got Nunzio, too. And I haven’t seen Davies, neither. You know what I've seen, though? A ton of those weird passengers. It's like they're replacin' us.”

Lanke and Gibbs. Both younger men, both vulnerable, both too lowly for a captain such as Witterel to have particularly noticed. He’d never seen either of them in his cabin, after all. Moss wasn’t his damn steward, and Nunzio he’d never even heard of. Them missing for days and him not noticing made an alarming amount of sense.

But then there was the fourth mate, who wasn’t Fourth Mate Brennan. Witterel had definitely noticed his absence. “Nobody’s seen Davies in _weeks_ ,” he pointed out, and gestured with the gun for emphasis. Hoscut pushed it down again.

“Aye, none of that now. We've been here for weeks, haven't we? You'd better save your bullets for the beast.”

“He means shoot yourself already, Cap’n,” Walker said, and sneered. “Do it again!”

Witterel’s breath caught in his throat, even as he dragged Walker out from under the desk and stomped down on his neck so he couldn’t breathe either. “Care to repeat that?”

“Och no. Captain, I’m not sure…” But Hoscut took his hand off the pistol, backed up, so he wasn’t worth listening to right now. Walker was far more interesting; his eyes were bulging, and he was even shaking a decent amount, which was terribly satisfying until Witterel realized that wasn’t really Walker – that was his own trembling doing that.

He must be cold. He grunted, drawing his coat around himself, and found it didn’t particularly help. He didn’t care, much. “You won’t say that ever again. _Do you hear me?!?_ ”

“Or what, you’ll murder me?” Walker snapped at last, wriggling about so Witterel was pressing on his chest instead. “Where’d you put Lanke’s body, huh? Over the side, like Butement?”

“I’ll put you over the side in a minute–”

“Murderer!” the topman howled, dragging himself up just to spit in his face. The urge to kick him in the head couldn’t be stronger right now. “Prove me right, go on!”

“ _Or_ ,” Hoscut put in, “we could do a spot of hunting. You take us to where you saw this bear, this ah, evil monster, and we’ll take its pelt.”

Walker grinned, despite his perilous situation. It was more a baring of teeth than anything resembling joy, to be honest, but he certainly tried to smile, and there was something even more maddening about that. “So you’re saying, you’ll shoot the bonny good cap’n here. How can I say no?”

Witterel kicked him in the head, just for that.

* * *

Hoscut growled, struggling for balance on the rope. “This had better be secured! If it’s not, then by the Crown of England, I’ll–”

“Safe as houses,” Walker assured him. “You’ve got four points of contact, you’ll be right. I’ve only got two, and I’m fine, aren’t I? Only problem is, you and I are up here with Foxy the monster bear. Soon as he turns, I’m gonna slit his throat wide open.”

Witterel shook his head. “Easy, now–”

“Ooh! And there’s the bait! Get ‘im, Cap’n! Just don’t murder us, aight?”

“Bait?” Witterel felt himself shudder in the rigging, and not just because it was such a long way down. Andersen was on deck, with only a stupid number of plates for company.

“Rod, sir! Told him Perrott wanted him up on deck. You can get him, go ahead, do prove me right–” And Walker said quite a few words Witterel hadn’t heard since the Kraken nearly sank the damn boat. “Shit,” he finished. “That’s a bear that isn’t you, isn’t it?”

Hoscut squinted. “Are you sure that’s a bear?”

“What else could it be?” Walker asked. His voice was shaking, now he knew he was wrong about it being the captain.

The bear resembled one of Spratt’s artworks; a bear drawn from the memory of a bear spotted ten years ago, by a man with probable dementia, and perhaps an obsession with trains. It had four legs, and it was sort of a grey metal, with lighter whitish–grey parts, and red eyes that glowed like the embers of a fire. And its face was, well, square. As much as Witterel hated to agree with Walker’s opinion, it really did have a square face.

Also, it was flying. A flying bear. It had some sort of pack on, as far as Witterel could tell, which appeared to be on fire and was likely helping with the flying. 

It stalked behind Andersen, or at least floated along, and usually Witterel would have shouted some warning, but it looked so _silly_ it was laughable to even think of it as a threat. Until it grabbed Andersen, of course, but by that point things were just too absurd to really react to. The bear - if you could even call it that - just reached out, plucked the steward from the deck, and shot into the air with a roar unlike any beast Witterel had ever heard. There wasn’t even a scream from Andersen; it was that fast.

Witterel had seen some strange and bizarre things, but – well, this kind of took the cake. Or at least took his third mate’s steward. Far away. 

“What… just happened? What is happening?”

Witterel thought that was Hoscut for a moment, but Hoscut was babbling in Scottish, and Walker seemed to have completely lost his voice. That was Witterel’s own panicked ranting, there. He was shaking again. The ropes were biting into his fingers.

“Keep it down,” Walker hissed. He was looking awfully pale. “I– I told you. I _told_ you.”

As far as the good captain was concerned, Walker had told them completely the wrong thing, but like hell was he going to make any kind of loud noise with a bear still around, even if it was flying at present. Who knew how well flying bears could hear?

"Well, well, well!" A beam of light shone from the heavens, like the lightning strike, but far more permanent. Witterel froze on the rigging, tracing the light upwards, until he found some sort of flying contraption at the other end of it. "Look what we've got here, like, dude. It's the Cap'n himself! Real important and stuff. Yeah. Reeeeeeeeal important."

“Chris!” Hoscut hissed, then added a few things in Scottish. Walker nodded, apparently understanding just by the tone of it, and pulled a knife from his hip.

"Think I can get him down, sir."

"No." Witterel craned his neck up towards the machine, and the thing that stood in the center of it. "We get a party together, wait for him to come down onto the deck, and then-"

"Here's the thing, Cap'n dude!" McLean bellowed. "This is my ghostly immortal boat now! I'm taking it for my new season of Total Drama, since it's just like an island, but you can't blow it up! I left your other dudes safe on Wawanakwa, with the toxic waste. So like, if you could maybe shove off, and I won't set Scuba Bear on you-"

_Scuba?_

What _was_ a scuba?

Witterel thought about it a moment, and that meant he didn't see Hoscut draw his gun in time, and Hoscut's gun went off, and the flying machine shuddered, and McLean fell flat onto the deck, and Walker wasn't about to miss an opportunity.

"Get him, quick!" And he leaped from the rigging, knife in his teeth.

“Stand down!” Witterel roared, as the two men grappled on the deck. “In the name of the Crown, I’m arresting you for plotting murder and, ah, treason!”

“Can you convict him, sir?” wondered a very much shell–shocked Hoscut. “We’re not in Queen’s waters.”

Figuring his gun would be of more use if they were in range, Witterel started climbing down from the mast. “A technicality.” Then, to McLean: “I have a gun! You’ll stand down, by order of the Royal Navy!”

“I’m Canadian!” Chris yelled, and Walker tried to get the knife out of his mouth before he could get punched in the face. “I’m also from your future, where the Canadians don’t answer to a Queen. Also, no guns in Canada, dude.”

“You’re taking my men! And my boat!”

“Your men?” Even with a knife at his head, McLean still smiled his showman’s smile. Definitely demonic. “Your boat? Ha! You _died_ , dude- Hey, can you get off me? This is a very not–straight position, and I’m like, a living host with a very straight reputation? I’m married and stuff. Also, alive.”

Walker was straddling McLean now, trying to stab him in the neck even while McLean tried to choke him. It was a fairly indecent position. “Give it up! And gimme your money!”

“What are you guys, _pirates_?!?” 

Hoscut managed to get down off the rigging ahead of Witterel, and rushed forwards, gun in hand. “Lewis, stand down. And you, hands behind your head. We- we cannae have a reasonable conversation like this. Now, what are you doing here?”

"I think he knows damn well what he's doing here!" Walker roared. "He's working for the bear! The Scooby Bear!"

"Scuba! You be polite to my Scuba Bear! You might hurt his feelings!"

"Good! Hope I get your neck first!"

"Stand _down!"_ Witterel yelled again, and finally Walker got off. 

McLean grinned - and the instant Walker was off him, he was straight back up the ladder hanging from the flying contraption. Dammit. Walker sprang after him, but Hoscut grabbed his arm, and McLean ascended skywards. Only when he was out of knife throwing range did he begin anew:

“Just so you guys know, this is all your captain’s fault, got that? He didn’t sign my contract to, like, hand over the boat. So, now I’m having to totally do all the work myself! What a bummer!”

So _that_ was what the hundreds of legal papers had been over. Not that Witterel would have signed any of them, of course, but he'd hardly expected to lose crewmembers over not signing. “Now just you wait–”

“Wait for what?” McLean laughed at him, and disappeared into the night. The flying bear, scuba or otherwise, was long gone.

“Shit,” said Walker.

**Author's Note:**

> _I wanna be,  
>  I wanna be,  
> I wanna be famous!_


End file.
